Hellboy: Prophecy of Bones
by VoodooLilly
Summary: The Angel of Death isn't exactly what it seems, nor is it done with a certain slain Prince. Bringing Silverlance back from the dead, the Angel of Death sets everyone on a new path, to a destiny of it's choosing. Or is it? Nuada/OC,
1. Chapter 1

Title: Hellboy: Prophecy of Bones

Rating: T, may change in later chapters

Summary: The Angel of Death is not through with the slain Prince Nuada. Using dark magics and following dire portents handed down from an Oracle of the Triple Goddess; Prince Nuada is brought back to life, for a price.

Disclaimer: I own none of anything that looks even vaguely like Hellboy and all the yummy goodness that is Prince Nuada. Sad, so sad.

A/N: So yeah, I have previously been writing Grey's Anatomy fanfic (cause Owen+Cristina= rocks my socks off). But my plot bunnies have died, and I'm waiting for new ones from the pet store. Those rat bastards seem to have lost my shipment. Then over Christmas I watched Hellboy II, and Prince Nuada became my new mini obsession. Along with that creepy bastard with all the eyes (Guillermo del Torro is a twisted guy I tell you!) So I actually DO have a whole plot in mind for this story (yay!) and intend on finishing it. Eventually. Sigh, back to the salt mines I fear, this story wont write itself.

* * *

The bones were whispering. Even in the dark confines of the black spider silk bag binding them, they murmured, sibilant hissing just loud enough to taunt him. They refused to outright speak to him of course. They wanted only to speak to the Angel's Hand. Maddening. Any power refusing to revere the Angel of Death soon felt his wrath. The bones grew silent, leaving the bitter trace of mocking laughter to ring in the empty temple.

Dark pinions rustling, Moriel rose from his meditative seat, sinews and limbs cracking as he stretched, blinking bits of feather and dust motes from a dozen bloodshot eyes. With a careless thought he summoned the Hand, adding a cruel reminder for absolute haste. The _golii_ was a slatternly creature, still prone to defiance even after so many centuries of training and discipline.

Pained breathing heralded the _golii's_ arrival. Moriel inspected deeply etched talons for minute cracks before letting the summons ease its painful insistence. The _golii_ had shown up promptly after all. Leathery hands fished the bones from deep in his shroud, tossing the precious bag negligently to the Hand. The Hand snatched it from the air, pale skinned hands flashing like stars from the long, dark sleeves of tattered garments and cradled them to a thin chest, like a child at suck. Even though the Hand wore a heavy cowl, Moriel knew a tender, reverent look was being bestowed on the bones. They belonged to the _golii_ after all.

"They speak _golii_. I will know their words. Bind you speak true, bind you to silence for all others. Only I will know the portents. Speak." Magic pulsed in the ritual words, throbbing in the air, tightening the Bindings linking Hand and Angel together. A faint glow illuminated the face in the cowl, the triple runes on the third eye standing in stark relief. A faint grimace of pain was all Moriel saw before the light faded, pleasing him. This Hand needed the reminder of pain, often.

Smoothly the _golii_ knelt, placing the black bag on the ground. Pale hands crawled like spiders over the drawstring, unknotting the blood-red cord holding the pouch shut, breaking the spells keeping the bones quiescent. Moriel hissed with pleasure as the cloth fell away, revealing the mix of ebony, ivory and cobalt bones within. How he coveted the power of those tiny, gem-like bones! Four of glowing ivory and azure, five of darkest black, each bone was unique, carved with thousands of tiny sigils in a language so old that not even he fully understood it. Twelve had been made by Her, the Creatrix of All, then gifted to Her Oracle as the Goddess' voice to Her children on earth. The thirteenth bone was the Oracle's own, severed from the left hand, to give the bones life. They spoke only to the Oracle, going dormant in death. Death had no life to give them, so Moriel needed the Oracle alive. No true seers had been born in a hundred years, and of those alive who divined the future, none had the power to transcend to Oracle. Watching the _golii's_ maimed hand deftly scoop up the tiny gems filled Moriel with mixed parts fury, envy and satisfaction.

The _golii_ cast the bones thrice, the silence growing heavier when they were thrown an additional time. Never had Moriel seen the _golii_ throw them so many times. Curiosity ate away at his patience, irritation making him send a spike of pain down the Hand's bonds. Shoulders hunched in pain under the cowl, even as the _golii_ cast the bones a final time.

"What you seek, Ä-Mǽriel, fades as we speak. The Heir of Bethmora lies dead, fallen to ash, and with him heart-dreams conjured in secret. Day to Night, Night to Day, seeds planted in bitter soil failing. Return the Heir to the sundered throne, bound to death and life, hate and love, to reap the harvest of your dreaming. Anung un Rama turns to his true course, the Great Tree withers, dies, and from the ashes will arise a new empire, watched over by the Angel of...of Death and Rebirth. The bones prophecy, and will speak to you no more." Fine trembles shook the _golli's_ body, the last dulcet syllable fading into the ominous silence. The Hand's pause went unnoticed by Moriel as he shook with rage. Mariel, Angel of Rebirth, opened her dozen summer-sky eyes and swam to consciousness within them. She had heard the slight hesitation.

"Thank you, my Hand. Go, we will summon you when we have need." Mariel spoke softly, her voice holding tenderness.

"Mistress. Master." The Hand swept up the bones and swiftly refastened the cord, humming the binding spell into the knots. The _golii_ stood, hands still cradling the bones and turned to leave.

"Give us the bones, slave. They are no longer yours, though they speak only to you." Moriel hissed, anger and fury bleeding down the Bonds, making the Hand shake with agony.

Clawed hands took the black silk bag and stowed them in their shroud, even as Mariel eased the _golii's_ pain, touching the bent head softly. Moriel growled as the Hand fled, cursing his twin for being too soft on the wretch.

"Peace, Moriel. We must focus on more pressing matters. What shall be done about Prince Nuada?" Mariel walked over to the inscribed circle on the floor, stepping across the line of skulls and candle holders imbedded around the perimeter. Moriel sat down, fingers of one hand toying with the small bulk of the bone pouch in his pocket. Mariel lit the candles with the other hand, preparing for a lengthy meditation.

"He must be resurrected. But can we do it? Our powers wane in this dominion of Man; they have such fleeting faith in anything not made by their greedy hands." Moriel gripped the pouch hard, feeling the bite of the bones even through his desiccated flesh. Mariel winced at the sharp pain.

"Yes, we can, but it will have a great price. We will use my Hand to fuel the spell; the _golii_ is the last reserve of my strength. Tying the two together seems to fit the portent, 'bound to death and life, hate-' and love? Nuala was his only love, and she is in death. Or is he to love what he hates? That would be more in line with Her sense of justice." Mariel mused, secretly delighted at the prospect. Seeing the Elf Prince with the Hand; bound to the _golii_ for life and love would be entertaining.

"Silverlance? In love with that creature? You are more cruel than I though, Mariel. But it is fitting. We are agreed then. We will resurrect Nuada Silverlance, bind him to our Hand and make of him our Avatar. Anung un Rama will scorch the earth to bitter gall, and we will reign over a new era." Triumphant glee welled deep in their five-chambered heart, Moriel chortling with satisfaction. Mariel sighed, counseling patience yet.

"Agreed. Bringing Nuada back will set the prophecy in motion. Rest, Moriel, while I prepare. You will need your strength."

"Agreed." Moriel retreated into the darkness, his dozen bloodshot eyes softly closing, leaving only Mariel's dozen open upon her wings. She inhaled freely, feeling a deep strain ease. It was always harder to share flesh than animate it alone. Though how alone could one be with a split soul housed in one shell? Settling into a more comfortable position, Mariel removed a scroll from her robes and began to write, skeletal claw imprinting golden runes on its surface with magic.

She had much to tell her Hand before Moriel woke.

***

A priceless fortune of golden shells littered the ruined throne room of Bethmora. The empty husks of the once fearsome Golden Army littered the floor like cast off toys, dropped in favor of some other entertainment.

Ä-Mǽriel glided around each fallen warrior with nary a sound, their Hand trailing quietly behind with a heavy chest clasped in thin arms. The alabaster statue of Princess Nuala greeted them with mournful silence as they found the shattered remains of the prince. Setting down the chest, the _golii_ hurried about unpacking the necessary supplies while the Angel watched. Magic gathered in a thick dust around the room, slowly waking to the silent call of Death. Star-like hands glowed against dark material every time the Hand moved, arranging the circle around the fallen Prince. Bits of golden shell made up the boundary, with obsidian obelisks marking the four cardinal directions. Finished, the _golii_ returned to Ä-Mǽriel's side, holding a stone bowl and a bronze knife at the ready.

Mariel took the bowl from the Hand, holding it steady while Moriel grasped the _golii's_ maimed left hand, wrenching it across the top of the bowl, roughly pushing back the long sleeve to expose pale skin. He took up the bronze knife, holding it poised above the fragile skin. The _golii's_ skin was flawless, smooth ivory tinted with gold, so fine he could watch the delicate tracery of veins in the wrist. They were pale silver in hue, unlike the green-tinted veins found in most mortals. The bronze knife slide over them, a lover's caress, parting flesh effortlessly and the wound gaped bloodlessly for a long moment before viscous silver fluid welled sluggishly. The Hand held perfectly still while the bowl filled. Moriel squeezed the wound, making the silver blood flow faster, and the _golii_ wince. Mariel held her tongue.

Judging the bowl full enough, Moriel let the last drop fall before removing the bowl. Mariel spared the _golii_ a moment of pity and sealed the wound with a surge of magic down the bonds. Golden runes crawled along the edges of the cut, knitting flesh seamlessly together before fading. The Hand surreptitiously pulled the tattered sleeve down over the pale skin.

"Now, slave, the lance. Find it and hide it where I told you."

"Master." The Hand went to do as Moriel asked. He forgot her for the moment.

"I invoke the flesh; call forth the shattered parts that make the whole. Form. Now." The magic in the room twisted, eager to do the Angel's bidding. A cloud of dust and pebbles converged on the ruined statue of Nuada, every mote finding its place. An unblemished figure soon lay in its place. Moriel let fall two drops of silver blood onto the Prince's stone eyes. Ä-Mǽriel reached deep into the earth, pulled every particle from the air, leeched all it could from the moisture pooling underground, summoning all the magic it could reach. Corpulent with power, Moriel went to the statue of Nuala, the blade of the knife still lodged in her heart. Mariel dabbed blood over her eyes.

Ä-Mǽriel jerked the knife from Nuala's chest, power flooding into the empty space, holding her together, forcing stone back into living tissue. Blade in hand, Moriel returned to Nuada, letting the corpse of Nuala collapse to the ground. Nuada's statue had returned to organic tissue as well, lifeless, but no longer stone. The Angel of Death plunged the knife from his sister's heart into Nuada's chest. He stepped back, exhaustion weighing him down with leaden weights. Bloodshot eyes drooped. It was for Mariel to finish now.

The Angel of Rebirth knelt at the dead prince's side, a clawed hand prying open stiff jaw muscles, opening dark lips. Sharply indrawn breaths behind her let Mariel know her Hand had returned from Moriel's task. Wordlessly she passed the brimming bowl to the golii. Pale hands trembled, but no precious liquid spilled.

"Pour the quicksilver into his mouth as I remove the blade. Do not let a single drop stray, or all will be for naught. I will not save you from Moriel's wrath if you fail."

"Mistress." The fine trembles stilled. Mariel smiled. Wrapping desiccated fingers around the hilt of the knife, Mariel focused the remained of their gathered magic down the blade, into the dead heart sheathing it.

"Now." Mariel slowly began to pull the knife out just as the Hand began pouring silver blood down the Prince's gullet. Mariel could feel the blood coursing under the tip of the knife, could feel each molecule taking root in the dead flesh, blossoming. Quicksilver pooled around the edge of the wound, welling forth and sinking into dead skin; dry earth absorbing rain. The steady stream of quicksilver slowed as the bowl emptied, soon fading to the last few drops. Mariel placed her hand over the wound, Crimson blood began to flow. Golden light flared, light so bright it made the _golii's_ eyes water. Runes flared, stopping the flow of blood and sealing thinly over the wound , then fading to shadow traceries on the elf's skin. Ä-Mǽriel dropped its hand from the elf's chest, sagging to the floor.

Prince Nuada took in a shuddering breath. Long seconds ticked by before he drew in another, then another. Mariel smiled, pleased beyond imagining. She had not lost her gift, though this was probably the last resurrection she would ever be able to perform. The _golii_ stood over the living prince, transfixed, the empty bowl held in nerveless hands.

"Move him from here. Care for him till his strength returns. We will speak with him after we have rested. Use the healing magics you know, and the sleep charms to keep him complacent. More detailed instructions are on this scroll. Read it, commit it to memory, then destroy it. You will obey every command written there. I must rest." Mariel's voice was the dry scratch of old paper as she fished the scroll from her robes. They had expended much of themselves in this task. Mayhap too much? It was done now. Mariel's summer-sky eyes sagged closed.

"Mistress?" Mariel opened two eyes, looking at the Hand.

"Ask your question quickly."

"May I speak without fear?" Meaning the _golii_ feared Moriel's reaction.

"Yes, but swiftly. I fade."

The _golii_ knelt by Mariel's side, pale hands throwing off the heavy cowl. Smooth, symmetrical features were revealed, large, dark eyes dominating the round face. Dark hair crowned the _golii's_ head, smoothly bound back in a long braid. Humans were really such ugly creatures, though this one was considered to be beautiful by their standards. Mariel could not see it.

"Mistress, I beg of you, a name. Any name. My true name was given to you at my creation. I am not asking for it back. Just- any name." The _golii's_ dark eyes flicked to the sleeping prince, lingering on his perfect face. A riot of emotions washed over the Hand's face before settling into mask-like stillness, calm eyes turning back to Mariel.

Mariel was too exhausted to deal with the human's foolishness, opened her mouth to say 'no'.

"I could not bear it if _he_ called me 'slave'." Mariel was surprised by the raw anguish and desire in the _golii's_ eyes as she stared once more at the elf prince. Bound to love and hate was he? How very interesting! Mariel thought for a moment, unable to remember if the human was male or female. It was so very hard to tell the difference between the two! The whole race blended together what with their nondescript features and coloring, bland shades of earth. At least the fey were colorful.

She looked at the _golii_ for long moments, deciding on a name. Female, she thought, the human had been female in life. If not, well, the Hand wanted _any_ name after all, who was she to be choosy if the one Mariel picked did not suit?

"Eroica. Now go." Mariel closed her summer-sky eyes and faded into darkness.

"Mistress." The girl murmured, knowing full well that neither soul was animating the Angel. They were deep in the primal dark, resting and recouping, only their physical shell rested on the throne room floor. They could be there for hours if not days. Already the pain was building along her bonds; the runes binding and holding her together clamored for her obey the orders given to her. She held out for another moment, savoring the sound of her new name.

_Eroica_. Goddess only knew what it meant or why Mariel had chosen it, but she didn't care, it was hers. The pain ramped up a notch, becoming unbearable. Eroica moved toward the sleeping prince, breaking a prepared charm to help her move his body. Placing the broken halves on his chest, he floated up a few feet off the ground, held immobile. Gently Eroica nudged him into motion, guiding him deeper into the ruined palace of Bethmora to the safe haven she had prepared. As they passed the dais that once held the throne of the One Armed King, the _golii_ noticed the fallen form of Nuada's sister.

She was breathing.

Eroica bit her lip, tempted to stop and help the fallen princess, but the need to obey, carry out Ä-Mǽriel's orders was a compulsion too strong to resist. Already pain was arcing along her nerves at the delay. She would have to come back when she could, hopefully before Ä-Mǽriel woke. Gladdened by her decision, Eroica continued deeper into the heart of Bethmora with its fallen king.

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A/N: So for any confusion, let me clear up a few points. 1) Moriel and Mariel are the same creepy Angel seen in the movie. Ä-Mǽriel is the name they are called when referring to both of them. As for eye color for the two, they each have their own set on each wing, not that all the eyes switch colors, that would be creepy… well, creepier. 2) What the hell is a _golii_? Think golem (not from LOTR, google it if clarification is desired) I will explain that little bit of trivia, plus what a Hand is, at a later date. Till then; suffer. Reviews are peachy, me likey. If not, I'm writing this to stave off madness and ennui waiting for my delivery of plot bunnies. Bastards.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Second verse same as the first!

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Nothing made sense. Was this what death was? Embryonic silence interrupted by pain, snatches of light and noise at random intervals? If so, then death was insanity. All silence, nothingness, or full immersion in a world of sensation would be preferable to this in-between state of unpredictable variance. Nuada strove to embrace the nothingness. Silence was by far more preferable than the off-key humming overlaid by agony.

* * *

"So he's still living is he? Despite the poor care you've been giving him, slave?" a sharp noise, the crack of something hard striking flesh. He heard no answering sound of pain, though a phantom sting lingered on his left cheek. Nuala? Was she here? He only felt phantom pains like that from his beloved.

Nuada shoved off the clinging darkness as best he could, swimming toward the world of sound just above him.

"Nuala...?" a bare croak, more like air past cracked lips than true speech.

"Hmmm, mayhap he's not as badly off as I thought. Still no thanks to you, worthless construct." He felt another stinging echo, this time on his right cheek. Then the feel of dry flesh touching him between his brows. Magic pulsed through him once-

* * *

The first sensation he registered was warmth, the second, the slow, even pulse of a heartbeat nearby. Cool, damp fabric ran over his fevered brow, accompanied by soft humming, on key for once. He could not see. Warm hands tenderly smoothed hair back from his forehead, like his mother had done so long ago. Like Nuala used to do before his exile. Soft lips caressed his own, sending tingles through his weak body. Parts of him did not feel weak at all with those velvet lips pressed against his.

It was his Nuala, he knew it in his bones.

He felt her pulling back, breaking the kiss. Unacceptable. One chaste kiss was not nearly enough to satisfy his want of her, a longing spanning centuries. Finding the strength, he slung one arm around her, pulling her down to his lips again. Her mouth collided with his, misaligned for a kiss and bumping him somewhat painfully. It took but a moment for him to realign their mouths, tongue darting out to part her lips for a deeper taste. He pulled her closer, her slight weight on his chest moderately painful, but any discomfort was worth the taste of her, the feel of her against him.

She struggled for a moment before surrendering, letting slip a little animal moan and opening her mouth further to accommodate his demands. A small fist clutched his bare shoulder even as he fought to get his other arm around her slim waist. It would not cooperate. And as much as he wanted to continue kissing Nuala, his strength was waning. Head falling back to the pillow it rested on and breaking the delicious kiss, Nuada forced his eyes to open so he could look upon the face of his beloved.

Large, dark eyes framed by darker lashes looked down at him from a round, flushed face. Dampness glistened on full lips, berry ripe. A curtain of ink-black curls fell around them, blocking his view of their surroundings. Three things crashed upon his awareness even as his body marshaled strength to react. She was not Nuala, though she felt like _her_ in his soul. She was Human, or something close. And last, it was a terrible pity he could never kiss her again. Nuada used his one functioning arm to push the girl from him, rolling his body to the side at the same time. He was fortunate in the direction he had chosen for each of them; she landed on the floor with a pained cry, one oddly familiar though he had no idea why it would be, while he rolled across the bed to fetch up against a stone wall. Using more of his already depleted energy, he turned so his back was braced against the wall and prepared for attack.

Laughable really. He was weak as a babe in arms, near helpless even against a frail Human girl. Taking quick stock, his chances became even grimmer. He was not only naked, but unarmed. An ignoble end for an Elvish Prince. At least when he died the first time he was armed. The first time? Before he could wonder about that thought, the girl rose to her knees, wide eyes turned on him reproachfully even as the sheen of tears made the dark depths luminous. Yes, a pity she was Human and that he'd have to kill her.

"Who are you? Where am I? Where's Nuala!" He rasped, voice rusty from disuse. The girl bit her full bottom lip, making him groan on the inside and shake with disgust. Human, yet she tasted like an immortal. Pain creased her brow and the tears in her eyes rolled like crystals down her smooth cheeks. She shook her head, body trembling before she spoke in a whisper he strained to hear even with Elvish senses.

"Eroica. Bethmora. Safe. I can't..." she shook even harder, pain obvious now on her features. He hardened his heart against any concern he might feel for her. She sobbed once, the sound of an animal caught in a trap. With no warning, she lunged up and across the bed, faster than he would ever credit a Human able to move. Warm fingers touched his brow and he caught the end of a whispered incantation. He did not have the strength to fight her off, nor combat the magic she was preparing to use against him.

"Sleep. Forget this." her voice pleaded. Magic pulsed through him once-

* * *

He woke slowly, in stages. Normally he would awaken all at once, instantly alert and aware of his surroundings, as if unconsciousness had never happened. Not so this time. Consciousness came to him slowly, first registering minor sensations, then sound, until finally his mind swam to the surface of his being, a diver gone down so deep that to resurface was an almost alien experience. He was in his childhood room in the palace of Bethmora. The cracked plaster over his bed, that just faintly resembled an ogre sleeping on a mountaintop, was just as he remembered. Why was he in Bethmora at all? The last place he remembered waking in was the fetid squalor of the New York sewer system where he and Mr. Wink had a lair...

Wink was dead, killed by Anung nu Rama, the Blighted One. Nuada was dead as well, though not by the Blighted One's hand.

"_Nuala_." It was so blindingly clear, that last memory. He was defeated, the crown lost to him, his enemy triumphant, leaving him alive without even the courtesy of a clean death. Facing the rest of eternity with that humiliating defeat on his soul was unthinkable. Nor could he just stand by and watch his people and all the Fey, great and small, perish at the hands of Man. So he'd cast aside the dregs of his honor and tried to kill the demon spawn with guile and a blade to the back. Only to be betrayed the ultimate time by his heart's mate, his beloved Nuala, Her defection to the fish-man he could have forgiven in time, even taking their father's side and withholding the crown piece had been forgotten. But this, he could never forgive her this grievous sin.

Without pity or hesitation she plunged the blade of that elven steel dagger into her breast, rending his heart in twain. The agony of it still lingered, a phantom pain plaguing him even in death. The afterlife was pure hell, and confusing. He was alone in the ruined shell of his childhood room, with only a lingering ache of pain in his physical body and a world of grief, hurt and frustrated rage in his soul. And Nuala was gone. He only felt a cold void where their bond used to lie within him. Nuada closed his eyes, infinitely weary and prayed to Danu for oblivion. Only Humans went to Hell, their belief in it making it so. Nuada should have faded to nothing, or been reborn, as was the Elven way. Two silent tears of shame and defeat spilled down his _ogham_-marked cheeks.

The whisper of fabric over stone and the tiny vibration of a bare foot meeting the floor alerted him long before the owner appeared in the room's doorway. Nuada was up, back pressed to the wall next to the door, a fallen hunk of stone clasped in a raised hand and poised to attack. He felt weak, not nearly at his full strength. He would have to strike quickly, incapacitating them without killing. He needed answers after all, and even in Hell people talked.

A diminutive figure heavily cloaked and hooded in faded gray rags shuffled into the room. The creature paused, head lifting and looking about the room for the Prince. Nuada brought the stone arcing down, clipping the creature right at the base of the skull, using only enough force to render it unconscious, not dead. Soundlessly the creature crumpled to the floor in a fluttering of grimy rags. Nuada stepped away from the wall, preparing to kick the creature over and wrench off its concealing hood.

"Now is that any way to treat your hosts, Silverlance? I had expected better manners from the son of Balor." The voice that spoke sent tendrils of horror curling up and down Nuada's spine, freezing his blood. It was the sound of decay and dry bones scratching on metal, of mortal life shrieking into darkness and despair. Nuada turned to see what nightmare stood behind him.

The creature was near eight feet tall, with a sightless bone crest crowning its misshapen skull. Lank black hair dangled onto its death-shroud covered body, skeletal hands clasped pensively at its waist. Desiccated lips were pulled back from odd, silver teeth in a mocking leer, a sick parody of a smile. But it was the abyssal black wings that jolted Nuada from his visceral fear into recognition. Only one creature in Danu's Creation walked the mortal plane with ebon-black wings winking with jewel red eyes.

Nuada dropped into a deep bow, keeping wary golden eyes on the Angel of Death and Rebirth. "Ä-Mǽriel. Forgive the trespass against your servant. If I had known..." Nuada trailed off into silence, skin crawling as the Angel rasped a dry chuckle at his apology. He would have preferred anger to that laugh, it would be less frightening.

"Forgiven, Silverlance, easily forgiven. Ä-Mǽriel's Hand is a resilient construct, and near impossible to kill. Rise." Nuada straightened and backed a few steps away as the Angel entered the room. Standing over the fallen Hand, it nudged the body roughly, muttering too low for Nuada to hear. Jerkily the creature rose, body hunched over and shaking. Nuada winced inwardly, regretting harming the poor bastard. He had felt the subtle flow of magic reviving the creature, but not the familiar pulse of healing magic to accompany it. The Angel didn't seem to care if the creature was damaged as long as it was functional. Foolishness. What did he care if the creature hurt? It was not his primary concern. Finding answers was.

"How did I become a guest of yours Ä-Mǽriel? I was not expecting this honor at my- at my death." Nuada spoke cautiously, using as much politeness as he could muster. Which wasn't much, the burning need to have questions answered was consuming him.

"You are not dead. Well, at least you are not dead anymore."

"My lord?"

A dozen blood-red eyes pinned Nuada to the floor, the look inside them inscrutable. He willed his heart to keep beating steadily, picked one eye and met it squarely. The death's head grin on the Angel's face faded to more serious repose, though no less horrifying.

"You have been brought back, Prince Silverlance. You have a destiny, a higher purpose to serve. What is your most fervent desire?" The Angel stepped closer to Nuada, wafting the scent of dry-rot and dust up his nostrils. He fought not to cringe.

"To save my people from the ravages and perfidy of Humanity; killing all the Humans if I must to do so." Nuada held himself erect, chin tilted up in pure bravado.

"Yes. Yes that is indeed a worthy goal, and one that I am prepared to help you achieve. Are you willing to do anything necessary to accomplish this though? You will not waver no matter the cost?" Nuada heard a quiet eagerness in the Angel's voice. He weighed his response carefully.

"The ends justify the means. I have already died once, without honor. I have lost everything dear to me. All I have left is this desire; to save my people from the Humans." Nuada bowed his head, feeling the bitter sting of that admission, the empty, cold void where Nuala used to glow.

"Good." The Angel snapped its wings open wide, shaking dust motes into the air. "We will talk more of your plans later. Now you need to rest and regain the strength you have lost. Only so much could be done when we resurrected you, the rest will simply take time. Our Hand will see to your needs. It is a golem, simply command what you wish and if it can be done, it will do so. Use this gift wisely. I will return soon."

Nuada watched the Angel leave, held his breath until the last scraps of its robes disappeared around the corner of the doorway. The air slowly left his lungs in a weary sigh.

The Hand was still hunched over its belly, immobile and as animated as stone.

Nuada limped back to his childhood bed, the musty mattress in it's sheltered alcove a welcome sight. He sank into its embrace. Faintly trembling hands scrubbed the worry from his tense facial muscles, pressed tight over tired eyes. He heard no movement from the creature indicating it was going to leave on its own.

A golem, was it? What did he know of golems? Magical constructs created by sorcerers of incredible power, usually bits of metal, clay or stone, nothing that was once alive, animated and bound with and by runes. They obeyed, literally and exactly, any order given. They were voiceless, mindless servants. What under the Great Tree would he do with a mindless drone?

"Hand, go about your regular tasks, if you have no regular tasks, find something useful to occupy four hours of time. At the end of four hours, return here with food for me, fresh clothing and either bring me a bath, or take me somewhere I can clean up. Go."

He finally heard the creature slowly shuffle off, an odd, limping gait to its steps. Again that niggling sliver of guilt pricked him. It was only a construct; it couldn't feel pain or anything else, so he shouldn't feel guilty for the blow he struck it. Eagerly Nuada surrendered once more to oblivion and let sleep claim him. When he woke, he would think of everything he had to do.


End file.
